


Today This Ends

by FiaMac



Series: Psycho Heroes [21]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Arthur makes it better, Bad Parenting, Established Relationship, Family Feels, Family Issues, M/M, Mention of Child Abuse, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:49:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28423476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiaMac/pseuds/FiaMac
Summary: Domestic bliss ends when Eames's past intrudes on the new life he's created for himself.The foreboding grows when he traces the activity back to a premier investigation firm in London, one hired by the Emerson Family Estate. Eames’s father.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Series: Psycho Heroes [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/314909
Comments: 53
Kudos: 123





	1. Blood

_New York, USA_

“Have you ever faked an orgasm?”

Arthur rolls his eyes and shoos Eames further down the cereal aisle, past the generic budget brands so he can grab a box of organic oat squares. “Seriously? That’s what you’re going with?”

“No welshing.”

“I’m not. I just thought you’d aim—”

“Deeper?” Eames waggles his brows and looks so adorably pleased with himself that Arthur tosses a box of Eames’s disgusting plain cornflakes at his head. Eames catches the box with ease, laughing, and drops it in the shopping cart. “I’m a man of many facets. Haven’t you been paying attention?”

“Too much,” he mutters, turning the corner into the next aisle. Eames trails after with the cart and, thankfully, waits until they’re in the relative privacy of the canned fruit section before resuming the conversation.

“Well? Let’s have it. Yes or no, have you ever faked an orgasm?”

Debating between peaches and pears, he checks the labels for sugar content. “…no.”

Eames grabs two cans of both plus an overpriced jar of maraschino cherries. “But…? You hesitated.”

“There was one time. I didn’t _fake_ an orgasm, but my partner assumed I got off, and I didn’t correct them.”

“And they didn’t notice?”

“It was a dark hallway in a shitty club. I kept getting distracted. Frankly, I was relieved just to get out of there.”

Eames shakes his head. “Oh, Arthur. How you’ve suffered before I came around and graced your life.”

Arthur grins. “The sex is definitely better, that’s for sure.”

“Too right.” Eames pushes them off towards the dairy products, calling loudly over his shoulder. “Yes or no, do you consider yourself an exhibitionist?”

* * *

Life isn’t good—it’s fucking fantastic.

Before the separation, Arthur thought he understood what being in love felt like. The heady intoxication of passion, the enduring comfort of domestication. In truth, he had no clue what love could fully be until he stopped running from the things he didn’t believe he deserved: unwavering acceptance, unconditional belonging.

He still can’t tell Eames about the darkest parts of him. No matter how much he longs to drag those remaining pieces into the light, there’s an internal blockade he can’t find his way around. As a compromise, he grants Eames carte blanche to ask him anything else. He means it as a gesture, for the most part, but the offer becomes one more thread binding them together, and Arthur regrets nothing.

Eames responds to the open invite with random questions about Arthur and his past. Arthur doesn’t consider it a fair trade, honestly. Eames, however, is ecstatic with the arrangement.

Sometimes the questions he comes up with are inane personal trivia—the sort of information that only Eames would take joy from.

“Did you have any pets growing up?”

“Briefly. I went through a ferret phase in fifth grade. It didn’t end well.”

At other times, Eames asks things that he’s obviously been sitting on for a long time.

“Did you really burn down Heinrich’s base of operations?”

“Not personally.”

Eames gives him a considering look at that answer, and Arthur waits for him to demand further details, his heart racing as he reminds himself that there’s no longer a need to hide.

But Eames surprises him, as he often does. “And how did you come to have a professional hitman on speed dial?” he ultimately asks, with no hint of judgement on his face.

Arthur blinks and looks away as he admits, “I slept with his wife.”

“ _Arthur_.”

He hunches his shoulders, still embarrassed by the whole saga. That wasn’t his finest hour. “I didn’t know she was married.”

Eames just shakes his head. “Unbelievable.”

* * *

Naturally, it’s too much to ask that the world leaves them in their happy bubble for long.

Arthur gets the first notification while he’s out for a run. Without bothering to slow his pace, he gives the message a cursory glance and puts his phone back in his pocket. He doesn’t pay it any attention for now. Every few months he gets pings on his monitoring programs from people trying to track down either Eames or himself. Most times, they’re potential clients or former colleagues interested in hiring them for a job. No reason to be concerned.

Except he receives six more notifications by the time he circles back to the townhouse. All originating out of London. All of them searches using Eames’s real name.

The house is empty when he returns home. A note pinned to couch cushion, written in purple highlighter ink, tells him Eames went out for a haircut. Arthur spares five minutes to shower and change before parking himself in front of his computer.

His spine itches with apprehension. Were this work-related, whoever is running the search would be looking into one of Eames’s alias. The identity of Bryce Emerson, Junior is a dead end, trailing into obscurity after Eames joined the SAS and fading to black around the year he went into the program. There’s no clear gain from probing that far into Eames’s background, and that ambiguity makes Arthur nervous.

The foreboding grows when he traces the activity back to a premier investigation firm in London, one hired by the Emerson Family Estate. Eames’s father.

Officially concerned, now, Arthur picks up his phone. Sets it down again. He can’t decide what to tell Eames. Honestly, he’s not sure _if_ he should tell Eames anything at this point. A month ago, he would have waited, would have quietly pursued the matter on his own until he had the full picture. But the recent close call in their relationship leaves him reluctant to keep more secrets, even though he knows this is going to send Eames into a tailspin.

Arthur checks the time, and then he waits.

* * *

“Why?”

It’s the first thing Eames says after learning about his father’s attempts to find him, and the vulnerable, _hunted_ look in his eyes gives Arthur an urge to break things. “I don’t know. Do you…” There’s a number of ways he considers finishing that sentence. He decides on the most straightforward. “Do you want me to follow up on this?”

Eames gets up to prowl around the coffee table. “No.” He spins and paces the opposite direction. “Yes.” Sharp pivot. “I don’t…”

“You don’t have to decide now. Think about it for a while.” _Or not at all_ , Arthur almost adds, watching Eames grow increasingly agitated. Whatever this turns out to be, it’s already causing damage, and Arthur hates that he can’t make it simply go away.

“But—”

“Nobody will find you unless I let them.” That’s one guarantee, at least, he can make. “Think about it. Then decide.”

Eames lets out a stilted breath and nods. For the next couple hour, he lets himself be distracted with lunch and a made-for-TV romcom afterwards, but Arthur can tell where most of his attention truly lies. In fact, they haven’t even reached the near-breakup stage of the movie when Eames hits pause.

“I want to you to check into it,” he declares, looking unsure but determined.

Arthur nods. “Okay.”

“Good.” Eames nods, as well. “Right.” He stands, shifts from foot to foot. “I’m off to the gym, then. See you in a few?”

Arthur smiles and takes his hand, pulling him back down for a kiss. “A few hours sound perfect.” In other words, by the time Eames returns, Arthur should have the rundown on what Bryce Emerson, Senior, is up to and what it might have to do with his wayward son.

He waits until Eames leaves before hitting the research once more. It doesn’t take long to crack Emerson’s life open. Civilians never think to protect themselves from scrutiny, especially not wealthy, entitled civilians. That doesn’t mean, however, that picking apart the man’s motivations is any easier. From what he can determine, Emerson is an old-money asshole who wants for nothing and gives even less. Which, in addition to being no surprise at all, doesn’t help Arthur much in figuring out why he’s interested in contacting Eames all of a sudden.

Eames is back a couple of hours later, tired but still antsy and eager for answers. “Is he dying, then?”

Rubbing at his eyes, Arthur pushes back from his desk. “If he is, he hasn’t consulted a doctor about it. Nothing in his medical records or finances shows a change in behavior. He hasn’t even traveled outside of London in over a year. No questionable activity raising a flag.”

“You don’t believe it’s related to work, him searching for me.”

“Instinct says no. And there’s no indication that he knows dreamshare exists. But it’s always a possibility.” Arthur rocks back in his chair, giving Eames a moment to mull everything over. “Next step would be surveillance,” he offers.

Eames taps the edge of the desk, thinking. “No,” he eventually says. “I want to go there. Talk to him face to face.”

Which sounds like a disaster to Arthur but also the quickest way to resolve the matter. “You’re probably right. When do you want to go?”

“Tomorrow. Yeah, tomorrow. Would rather get it done with, you know?” Eames looks at him with imploring eyes. “Can you…”

“I’ll take care of it. Hey.” Arthur stands and moves closer, ignoring Eames’s sweaty gym clothes to catch him up in a soft, gentle kiss. “Maybe you could fix us something for dinner while I handle the arrangements?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.”

* * *

Eames flicks through the shirts hanging in the walk-in vault Arthur calls a closet, bypassing his more favored jumpers and lingering on a mint green oxford that still has the tags on it. What does one wear to a confrontation with their estranged fathers, twenty years after being kicked out from under his roof? Are pastels too on the nose?

Perhaps it’s more of a pinstripe situation.

He gathers up an armful of viable shirts and leaves the closet to find Arthur standing next to his own half-packed suitcase, tapping away at his phone for the fifth time that hour.

“Everything okay?” he asks, and Arthur snaps to attention, typing out the rest of his text without looking.

“Yeah, fine.”

Except he knows all too well, now, what Arthur’s guilty face looks like. “Who are you texting?” And, sure, maybe that’s cheating since Arthur promised to answer all of his questions truthfully. Still…

His beloved actually toes the carpet for a moment before answering. “Noah.”

“Arthur…” Eames sighs. “You can’t put a hit out on my father.”

“I wasn’t!”

He finds himself squinting in suspicion, despite how Cobb-ish it feels. “Weren’t you?” he challenges.

Arthur crosses his arms and raises his chin, no doubt meaning to come off as formidable and undaunted. In actuality, he looks rather like a child told to put his toys away before supper. It’s a smidge adorable, honestly, but Eames refuses to back down and holds his gaze until Arthur throws his hands up.

“Fine,” he hisses, flouncing out of the room.

Eames shakes his head and returns to his shirts.

* * *

They get through airport security quickly, which is always nice, except that means they have more downtime before boarding than Arthur planned for. Eames says he isn’t in the mood for wandering the shops, so they find a bank of seats in an unoccupied corner to wait out the next couple of hours.

Eames thumbs through the latest _Vogue_ while Arthur pulls out his laptop and takes another look at Emerson’s financial records. There’s bound to be something that he can use against the old man. He refuses to believe that someone who abuses and abandons their only child wouldn’t have a body or two buried under the floorboards. Metaphorically, of course, but he can always hope for more. Someone like Emerson wouldn’t weather a murder sentence very well, after all.

“Middle name?”

Arthur freezes. Maybe if he doesn’t breathe, Eames will forget he’s there. But no. Eames folds his magazine closed and prods Arthur with it. “Come on, darling. You know the rules. What’s your middle name?”

 _Fucking fuckity shit._ Arthur sighs. “Ambrosius.”

Eames stares. “It’s not.”

“Shut up.”

“Oh, my god. It _is_.”

“Don’t make me hurt you.”

“No, no.” Eames sits ups, face alight with unholy glee. “This is too good. I must call your mother. Right now.”

Arthur wants to argue or maybe throw Eames’s phone into the sea of wheelie bags and powerwalking travelers. But… Eames is smiling. And it keeps him distracted, spending the rest of their wait chuckling and gossiping with Arthur’s mom.

Damnit.

The things he’ll do for love.


	2. Truth

_London, England_

Returning to his childhood home in Kensington is like déjà vu of a bad high. Eames can feel his heart racing and his lungs stretching for air, but the rest of his body is weighed down by an uncomfortable numbness. He stares at the pretentious white façade of the house while Arthur pays the cabby, and he thinks—nothing. His mind is blank. The entire journey over, he’d been preparing himself for an assault of memories, few of them good, but instead there’s just static.

“Ready?”

He turns and blinks at Arthur, noting the rigid set of his face and shoulders. It’s the same look Arthur gets when he’s heading into a gunfight.

“As much as I’m likely to get.” He takes the lead, approaching the building with even strides as the blood starts rushing in his ears. The door is answered by a housekeeper he doesn’t recognize, which—of course, not. It’s been years. He’s not sure why he expected it to be the same person. “We’re here to see the man of the house.”

The woman doesn’t react to Eames’s irreverent attitude. His father always did prefer employees without obvious personalities. “Your name, sir?”

“Tell him it’s his son.”

That does garner a reaction, a flicker of surprise and disbelief. “I’ll let him know. If you would like to wait in the drawing room, I can—”

“I know the way, thanks.” He strolls through the hall with confidence while the woman hurries off. At the second door on the left, he turns and looks around the room. It’s all straight lines, cold colors, and pristine surfaces, just as it was when he was younger. The air gets harder to breathe the longer he looks, so, instead, he watches Arthur take in the surroundings with a curious eye. “What are you thinking?” he asks, eager for the flat American tones of Arthur’s voice to dispel the fog in his head.

Arthur sends him a wry glance before examining an antique lamp. A Gurschner, if Eames were to guess. “You know, I always kind of thought the posh thing was just an affectation to make yourself seem more impressive.”

“And are you impressed?”

“Disappointed, mostly. You know I hate being wrong.”

Eames chuckles, shoulders easing. “Consider it character growth.”

And just as he’s starting to breathe again, the fleeting moment of humor is spoiled by the arrival of none other than Bryce Emerson, Senior, himself.

He looks exactly as Eames remembers. Older, naturally. The once-blondish hair is now a full head of white, and the skin of his hands is papery and spotted. But the vague fantasy Eames had of coming face to face with his father and seeing a stranger—well, that’s quickly put to bed by the familiar, hard line of his father’s mouth and the dismissive scorn in those pale green eyes.

Eames finds his spine straightening, shoulders pulling back. It’s not pride. His instincts scream that he make himself look bigger, stronger. It doesn’t matter that he’s a trained soldier with multiple lifetimes of combat experience. To his shame, there is fear lingering inside of him, scratching at his nerves.

Arthur steps close until their arms brush, and Eames lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Father,” he greets with far more neutrality than he thought himself capable of.

“Hmph.” His father acknowledges them with little warmth, looking him up and down. Swiftly disinterested with whatever he finds, he eyes Arthur next. Eames sees him note the fine cut of Arthur’s clothes, the deceptively simple watch on his wrist, and form all the wrong conclusions. “I suppose this is your…”

“Lover? Boyfriend? Male companion?” He bats his lashes and delights in the pinched distaste on his father’s face. “Yes. To all three.”

If Arthur has any notion that he’s just been mistaken for a male floozy, it doesn’t show as he holds out a hand. “Arthur King,” he introduces himself with his usual sangfroid. He doesn’t bother to lie about what a pleasure it is, and Eames’s father grunts and shakes his hand for the shortest duration possible.

“An American. Of course.” He gestures them towards one of the sofas—also the same since Eames was last there. “You might as well sit.”

Eames is struck by surrealistic bewilderment. He’d been in this room several times before, but never had he been allowed to sit on the sofa. And, although adult logic tells him the universe won’t implode should he choose to sit now, it’s proving more than a little difficult to make his knees bend. He’s grateful that Arthur stays at his side, sitting closer than polite society would condone. Close enough that he can feel the defensive energy coiled within him, just as always when they’re in enemy territory. He lets his hand rest on Arthur’s knee, partly to be scandalous, but, mostly, he wants that grounding touch.

His father makes the opening gambit. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

“And I was surprised to hear you were looking for me.”

“Hmph. I suppose it’s fortunate you’ve come. Of course, calling ahead would have been more appropriate.”

“Well,” Eames gives him a sardonic smile. “We both know I’m anything but appropriate.” He watches his father’s eyes narrow at the corners. Sass had never been an accepted thing in this house. But he’s not a beaten child anymore, and he’s long since abandoned living by his father’s rules. “Tell me, _pops_ , why have you been trying to find me?”

His father snorts. “Hardly. It’s not me that wants you here. This is your mother’s doing.”

Eames flinches. The pronouncement strikes like lightning, swift but far from painless. “My mother.” His throat closes up, witty responses running dry. He desperately tries to reel in his reactions, but the win goes to his father, and he knows it judging by the amused crook of those thin lips.

Searching for a lifeline, he looks to Arthur, who is just as shocked as he is. But Arthur remains steady, his eyes saying a dozen things— _Don’t panic. Anything you need. We’ll get through this. I’m here._

Eames tries to latch on, attempts to focus, but his mind gibbers uselessly while his father’s gloating stare burns the side of his face. The only thing he can manage is to squeeze Arthur’s leg.

He can’t do this.

* * *

Eames is drowning. Arthur can see the rising panic even before the grip on his leg clamps down like a vise. Hoping to buy time, he turns to Emerson and draws the man’s attention to himself. “I was under the impression that Eames’s mother was out of the picture.”

Nothing in his research indicated this as a possibility. If only they’d taken the time to run surveillance before coming, he might have been able to prepare Eames for this. Granted, the return of a long-lost mother was not something he’d been on the lookout for. Eames had made his wishes known on the matter—he didn’t want Arthur digging, and Arthur had honored that by making no attempts to discover her identity or whereabouts. Still… this is a hell of a bombshell, and he seethes over his unwitting failure to shield Eames from the hit.

Emerson hesitates before answering. His expression makes it clear that he considers Arthur’s presence an intrusion. “She’s been away, yes. But she returned last month.”

Beside him, Eames draws a slow breath, reentering the conversation. “This is unexpected, to say the least.” His voice carries a thread of the tension Arthur can feel in his body. “She’s here?”

“Having lunch with friends at the moment, but she should return momentarily.” Emerson turns up his nose, smug and knowing. Something he sees in Eames amuses him. “She’ll be pleased to see you,” he says in much the same way that others might announce a raise in gas prices.

“Will she?” Eames responds in a flat tone. “Wonderful.” Eames looks back over his way, and Arthur raises an eyebrow. He won’t voice the question, not in front of this man where any vulnerability Eames shows might be preyed upon. But it’s Eames’s shot to call.

Fortunately, Eames reads him perfectly, as always, and nods. Looking more solid, he leans back against the seat like this really is just a casual visit. “I suppose we’ll wait, then.”

* * *

The conversation, such as it is, dies an inglorious death, and Eames does nothing to revive it. He’s content to sit in as awkward a silence as possible for the bitter joy of watching his father glower over the fact that some residue of social conditioning prevents him from leaving.

Arthur, bless him, appears impervious to the uncomfortable climate of the room as he takes out his phone and engages in a flurry of texts. Or possibly ordering lunch. Maybe arranging that assassination hit, after all. It’s hard to tell when Arthur has his working face on like that, but the familiarity of his actions helps something inside of Eames settle. That, even amid dramatic revelations, Arthur refuses to allow himself—and by extension, Eames—to be thrown off kilter, it’s a comfort.

As if sensing these thoughts, Arthur puts his hand over Eames’s and continues tapping away at his phone with the other.

Clinging to that tether, Eames dares to loosen the stranglehold on his emotions just a little.

_His mother._

Fuck. He scarcely even thinks about her anymore. There’s never been much point, really. Why should he confuse himself with wondering or wishing. Especially not now, when he finally has an established life and someone he can make a home in.

He ought to be happy, excited to reunite with the woman who birthed him. All he feels, however, is dread. Because she’s also the woman who left him. And that fact has always outweighed the other, as far as he’s concerned.

Unbidden memories of his youth start to creep around the edges, lurking like shadows just beyond his vision. He puts the mental blockers back up and counts the wrinkles on his father’s face to spend the time.

His father has started to fidget—and it’s a petty victory, but Eames will take it—when a commotion from the hall interrupts the choking silence. He finds himself holding his breath again as he listens, parsing the noise into individual pieces. Rustling shopping bags. Pointed heels clicking on the hardwood floor, intercepted by a rubber squeak and the ensuing murmur of feminine voices. The rustling paper goes one direction while the clicking shoes head their way.

Arthur finally puts away his phone as he turns his attention to the entryway. It’s easier for Eames to focus on him, right now, than think about who is bound to walk in any second. Arthur’s eyes are tight and dark, indicating his worry. Eames thinks about how grateful he is to have him there, how impossible it would be to do this without him. And then he rises to his feet, towing Arthur alongside, just as his mother steps into the room.

She’s youthful and beautiful, barely aged from the one photo he’s ever seen. He discovers traces of himself in her—more than he ever saw in his father—particularly in the quick assessment and calculated joy that springs to her face at the sight of him.

“Oh, my—Bryce, my dearest boy, is that you?” She glides across the room with just the right amount of urgency, throwing her arms around his neck and hauling him into a gardenia-scented embrace.

His hold on Arthur’s hand tightens.

When she releases him, she touches his face and hair with trembling fingers. It’s something he’s seen Jackie do with Arthur, and it makes his stomach hurt.

“My goodness, you’re so handsome. Let me look at you.” She beams at him while he conducts his own examination. Her eyes are blue, a fact he hadn’t been able to determine from the photo. Somewhere in her sixties, her skin sags and wrinkles but holds the glow of a permanent tan. Lots of time spent near the ocean, he surmises, noting the brittle tone of her copper-dyed hair. “An absolute prince you are,” she declares with apparent pride. She drags him into another hug, and Eames reflects on the quality of her accent—posh enough for the Holland Park circles, but he detects the roots of something uncouth in the shape of her vowels.

He moves back when she releases him, drawing her attention over his shoulder.

“And who is this?”

Arthur steps around and offers his hand once more. “Arthur King.”

“My boyfriend,” Eames shoots out.

“Oh. I see.” To give her credit, she adapts quickly. “Yes. Yes, of course. Veronica Kerr,” she says, taking his hand. “Delighted to meet you.”

Eames stops tracking the conversation, falling into his thoughts. Up until this moment, he has never known his own mother’s name. And here she is, throwing it out like it’s no big deal.

To her, it probably isn’t, he realizes. She’s never had to play guessing games, imagining names to match a face. For a significant portion of his life, she’s known exactly where to find him. But she never did.

Still reeling, he says very little as they somehow all end up sitting again. His parents share the sofa across from them, not close together like he and Arthur but neither do they exhibit any of the hostility towards each other that he would have expected—and there’s another question added to the long list he refuses to ask. Tea is brought in, and Eames goes through all the motions of drinking without tasting a drop. Arthur lets his cup cool on the table, untouched, like the colonial heathen he is, deep down. His father remains silently judgmental, although Eames does his best to ignore the man entirely. Instead, he watches his mother hold court over their uncomfortable party as she tries to engage him in a series of _getting to know you_ questions.

“You’re a soldier, is that right? The man Bry employed to find you said something about Special Forces. That’s commendable.”

“I suppose it was.”

She waits for him to elaborate. He doesn’t.

“You say _was_. Are you no longer serving?”

“That’s classified,” he says with a rigid smile. It’s not even a lie, which makes it even better.

“Oh.” She regroups admirably. “What about you, Arthur?”

Eames’s smile spreads. “Also classified,” he states cheerfully.

His mother’s face pinches up, her frustration thinly concealed. It’s the first unscripted expression he’s seen from her yet. “Bryce, sweetie, let the man speak for himself.”

“Of course.” He looks to Arthur, brows quirked.

Arthur shakes his head at him but dutifully speaks up. “It’s classified,” he echoes, his voice as bland as overcooked porridge.

 _Love that man_ , Eames thinks.

His mother sniffs but visibly shrugs off her irritation. “I see. In any case, you’re both very brave.”

Arthur smiles a little and thanks her for the compliment. Eames grunts something inarticulate and shifts in his seat. It shouldn’t mean anything. Complete strangers at the shop will say as much to anyone in a uniform. It doesn’t mean a thing.

He hates that he wants to open up even the slightest to basic kindness. He positively _hates_ that he can’t show her the same insouciance he aims at his father. Even as he deflects additional personal questions and humors her prattle, he hangs on her every word, soaks up each gesture and detail. He tries to tell himself it’s merely a forger’s habit, but it’s _her_. Like some mythical creature proven real. This is his _mother_. And god help him, after a lifetime of forcing himself not to care, he wants to know everything about her.

“—have a couple of rooms prepared for you, it won’t take long.”

Slow on the uptake, Eames realizes what she’s assuming with a touch of horror. He can’t help but shoot a look at his father, who turns even more stone-faced, if one can believe it.

To his relief, Arthur shuts down the suggestion before Eames can stammer up a response. “Thank you for the thought, but we’re happy at the Connaught.”

His mother tuts. “Oh, but it’s so pricey. It’s practically criminal what these hotels will charge. Surely you don’t want to waste your money when you could stay here.”

Arthur’s polite expression sharpens. “Fortunately, we have plenty to waste. And Eames likes the patisserie there.”

His father harrumphs, the first sound he’s made in an hour, while his mother pouts ever so delicately. “Well… I’m just trying to help.”

Damned if she doesn’t sound as if she means it, too, even to his trained and jaded ears. It’s not what he wants to hear, especially when she launches back into the conversation with a cheery anecdote about a four-month stint she spent learning to free dive in Australia with some retired naval officer. She’s expressive and lively, when a part of him wishes she would be cold and dismissive. More like his father, who continues to lurk silently while he stares at his… exwife? Former mistress? Eames doesn’t even know if they ever married.

He, too, goes back to watching her talk, automatically cataloging the mannerisms he would copy if he were to forge her. From the shift of her mouth as she suppresses a northern brogue, to the way she gesticulates with her left hand and rarely her right. And then he searches deeper, comparing what he sees with what he’s always wondered about her. She’s assertive, self-composed, glamorous even. And that’s when he understands what is upsetting him most about all of this.

Veronica Kerr is, by many definitions, a strong woman, and Eames realizes he expected her to be a victim. The mother of his hidden dreams was someone who ran because she was scared or battered down. Too often to count, he’s told himself she left him because she had no other choice. But this person in front of him… she's never been a victim in her life.

He grows increasingly still and quiet, parrying her conversational overtures with clipped non-answers. Arthur sends him concerned glances, and, as much as his mother carries on with grace, he can see her patience wearing thin. It’s clear that she isn’t used to rejection. Beautiful and charming, he imagines she’s the life of every party. She even lures a genuine smile out of Arthur while discussing Vietnamese cuisine.

His vague amusement at her theatrics suddenly dries up. Because he sees what she’s doing—getting nowhere with him, she’s trying to work through his boyfriend, searching for a hook into his life.

Hell no. If Eames didn’t so desperately need Arthur at his side, he would have already sent him as far away as possible. He hates the thought of these people even being near Arthur, doesn’t want the stain of them on the best part of his world.

This—this isn’t something she gets to do. After everything, the least she—

“—yce. _Bryce_.”

“Eames.” The stroke of Arthur’s thumb across the back of his hand jolts him out of thoughts.

His mother is staring at him, her irritation now etched plainly on her face. “I realize that this has been a shocking day for you, but there’s never an excuse for rude behavior.”

Anger, ugly and furious resentment, swells within him. It sounds like voices screaming. “No. No, you don’t get to do that.”

“What are you—”

The wailing in his head is joined by phantom sobs. Nails scratching at wood, shattering glass, and the crack of a fist. “You’re not allowed to play the matriarch now that it’s convenient for you.”

At his mother’s gasp, his father sits forward with a hard look and a pointed finger. “Mind your tone, Junior.”

It tips the scales, one weight too many. He jumps to his feet, knocking his shins into the coffee table, and scrambles towards the entryway. Arthur is halfway out of his seat and calling his name when Eames holds up a hand, backing out. “Wait. Wait. I need to—”

Instantly, both of his parents talk over him, adding to the chaos screeching within him.

“Bryce, please sit. We must talk about—”

“Enough of this foolishness.”

“I have to go,” he says to Arthur—looking only at Arthur and ignoring everything else. “Meet you back at the hotel.”

He flees. There is no other word for it. He turns around and runs away.


	3. Uncertainty

Arthur watches Eames leave, torn on what to do. Rationally he knows Eames probably wants space right now, even from him. He’s seen before how Eames can get when his thoughts and emotions jumble up inside of him, how he needs solitude and movement to clear air. But it kills Arthur to not be there when he’s this upset.

He goes to follow, part of him hoping to find Eames just outside, pacing the sidewalk, when Veronica flutters over with teary eyes.

“Oh, dear. That’s not what I wanted to happen. I still need to…” She looks up at him with a fretful moue. “Or maybe you should tell him. He needs to know—”

“No,” he stops her, refusing to let her use him as a back channel to her son. “Anything you have to say, you say to him directly.”

Emerson comes growling up to her side in an unexpected show of protectiveness. “Watch your words, boy.”

Arthur stares back at him calmly. “Go fuck yourself,” he says, taking great pleasure in the dark red flush that spills over Emerson’s face.

“Out!”

That’s fine, not like he wants to remain there a second longer. He sees himself out of the house and scans the neighborhood. Eames is nowhere in sight, which is unfortunate but not a surprise. But he could be anywhere by now. Having grown up here, surely Eames discovered long ago the best and fastest escape routes.

Resigned to waiting, he walks down the road to a corner café where he can flag down a taxi. On the way back to the hotel, he can’t help but search the passing streets for any sign of Eames. Nothing. And the three texts he sends remain unanswered, which tells him plenty. Eames isn’t ready to talk, yet.

When he arrives at the hotel, their suite is empty, as expected. The silence is unsettling, so he opens the drapes and turns on a few lamps, hoping to make things seem homier. The place is the size of a luxury apartment, and the multiple rooms feel cold and cavernous without Eames’s energy filling the void.

Arthur puts on some music—and shuts it off again five minutes later. The television gets no more than a hostile glare. He goes so far as to plug in his laptop charger before giving up on that, as well. Instead, he collapses on the couch and keeps himself busy making a few phone calls.

He’s finishing up his last conversation when Eames returns, walking into the room with heavy steps. The relief on Eames’s face at finding Arthur there, waiting, breaks his heart.

In seconds he’s up and pulling Eames into his arms.

“Sorry I just left like that.”

“It’s okay. Don’t worry about that.” Arthur hugs him closer and just lets him hide against his neck for a bit. “Are you hungry?” he eventually asks, but Eames shakes his head. “Alright. Come on, shoes off.”

He steers them through the suite to the bedroom. “Phone. Wallet. Belt. Knife.” Eames hands over each item as directed, and Arthur places them on the nightstand along with his own. Next, he bundles Eames up in the bed, turns on the television, and flips through the channels until he comes across a random cooking show. He leaves it playing with the volume low, kicks off his own shoes, and joins Eames under the covers.

He hesitates then, not wanting to crowd in if Eames still needs distance. But Eames nudges against his side until he wraps himself around Eames, occasionally running his fingers through his hair while they watch a petite woman with a ferocious sneer sculpt a cake in the shape of a giant bird emerging from a tiny rain boot. The defiance of physics is wonderfully distracting, and he makes a mental note to track the baker down for possible recruitment.

“Have you ever been married?” Eames asks, eyes still on the show. “Or engaged?”

The question comes out of nowhere, but Arthur rolls with it. He’s getting used to the unmapped routes of Eames’s interests. “Not even close. Before you, my one real relationship was back in college, and that barely got off the ground.”

He feels more than sees Eames perk up slightly. “Was that the Scofield bloke?”

Arthur doesn’t bother with surprise. “Did mom tell you about him?”

“Your dad.”

“Figures.” Arthur shifts, resettling a numb arm while buying himself a little time to consider his words. “Trevor Scofield was… a high school crush, I suppose you could say. And about as pathetic of a cliché as you could imagine. Resident loner meets popular bad boy. I thought he liked me, when really he just wanted someone to get him off. I learned the truth in a horribly public and embarrassing way and didn’t try dating again until college.”

“Did he break your heart, darling?”

“Not really, no.” Arthur smirks. “I did break his jaw, though. In a horribly public and embarrassing way.”

Eames turns his head around and brushes his lips against Arthur’s chin. “Yes, my pigeon, I’m sure you did,” he says with pride before settling back down again. “So then, college?”

“Hmm. Darren. My first actual relationship. I… I really liked him. We were together for a few months, and… maybe it could have gone somewhere, but we were too different.”

“In what ways?”

“He—he said I was too controlling. Overbearing, something like that. We had a fight because we were out with friends or whatever, and this douchebag was giving him a hard time, saying shit about being gay, you know. So I kicked his ass.”

“Of course. And then?”

At the easy acceptance in his response, Arthur feels the easing of a tension he wasn’t even aware of holding. He wonders how things might have been if they had met in college. Dated and fallen in love when they were young and relatively normal. “And then Darren got upset about me using violence to solve his problems, and we broke up.”

“Hold it. He was upset with _you_ for beating on some homophobic trash? Whom you were defending him against?”

“Yep.”

“Arthur, dearest. It’s a grand thing I decided to claim you for myself because your taste in men is questionable.”

“Hey. _I_ claimed _you_.”

“Not how I remember it.”

Eames sounds more upbeat, and Arthur breathes easier. He knows it’s just a momentary distraction from the current situation, but he’s happy to do even that much for him.

“What about you?” he asks, enjoying the concept of actually asking for the details he’s always been curious about but never let himself think on for too long. “Any serious relationships before us?”

“None at all. Even had I been looking for something, I was never in the same place for very long. When I wasn’t deployed, I was roaming from one party scene to the next. Not exactly the stuff of lasting relationships. And then I got into the business, and you know how it is.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur feels compelled to say. He, at least, had the illusion of connections in his younger life. The opportunity to try romance on for size before deciding it wasn’t for him. Sounds like Eames never even had that.

“No. Way I see it, I was just waiting for you. Waiting until we were both ready. Anyone else… wouldn’t have mattered.”

Arthur sits up so he can look into Eames’s eyes. Eames helps by shifting onto his back—and then ruins it when he tugs Arthur towards him. They kiss, slow and easy, and the jagged edges torn into them by the day’s events finally level out.

“Why don’t you take a nap. You didn’t sleep much last night.”

Eames’s body sags deeper into the pillows at the suggestion, but he doesn’t look away. “You’ll stay?”

He lays back down, leaving his hand splayed out on Eames’s chest, resting above his heart. “I’ll be right here.”

* * *

Eames rouses from a half-doze filled with bad memories and finds Arthur in bed next to him, still. Or maybe again? At some point, he must have gotten up because he has his laptop and is scowling at the screen for whatever misdeeds it has committed against him.

It’s no mystery to Eames what Arthur has been up to, lately. He knows Arthur has researched every aspect of his father in search of leverage. Not that he minds—Arthur is welcome to stir up any trouble on that front he can devise—but Eames has no urge to involve himself. It may have taken him years, but he’s come to terms with his father and what’s been done. Those terms being, he loathes everything the man is, but he chooses to keep his distance lest he burn himself up with hatred. As a matter of survival, he had to let go of the past and move forward.

As much as he understands Arthur’s desire for vengeance, he’ll stick to the sidelines on this one.

What to do about his mother, however, is another story. And, unfortunately, the only person who can sort that out is himself.

There’s just one rather sizable problem, of course. He has no idea what to do.

* * *

Arthur is aware of Eames waking up, but he continues to work in silence. With his protective instincts running too hot right now, he worries about pushing on open wounds when all he wants to do is help. As difficult as it is for him to remain passive, he admonishes himself once more to let Eames set the direction and pace.

And, of course, even having that mental conversation with himself makes his stomach sour. He shouldn’t be worrying about how rough this is for _him_ when Eames is the one who recently had his world rocked.

It’s not like Arthur can relate, after all. His own parents are, objectively, wonderful people, and he’s never had cause to doubt their love for him. Or his love for them, for that matter. What Eames went through as a child—and Arthur is sure there’s a lot that Eames hasn’t told him about—it’s all bad enough, but knowing that life didn’t get much easier or happier as Eames got older…

It all leaves Arthur exactly where he is: angry and sickened and, most of all, worried. Especially since all of his research paints a stark picture of the cold, self-serving man Eames had the misfortune of being raised by.

The bed covers rustle, and then Eames’s bedhead creeps into his peripheral vision.

“Sleep good?”

“Hmm.” Eames nudges closer against his hip, so he puts the laptop aside to make room. “I know you’ve been looking for dirt on my father,” Eames says, surprising him. “Something to hold against him.”

“I haven’t found much,” he admits with no small amount of bitterness. “Some tax fraud. Questionable political contributions. Nothing unusual for his type.” Nothing he can _use_.

“It’s okay, love. What I mean to say is, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but you needn’t bother.”

He doesn’t want to argue with Eames, not today of all days, but the fury he’s been sitting on bubbles to the surface. “He can’t get away with how he’s treated you.”

Eames raises his head and gives him a sad, rueful smile. “Trust me, I know,” he drawls, and Arthur feels his face heat with shame. As angry as he is, his feelings aren’t important here.

“No, of course. I’m sorry. You shouldn’t—”

Eames sits up and interrupts his fumbled apology with a kiss to the forehead, a benediction that he doesn’t deserve but is grateful for. “I love you for wanting to swoop in like my avenging angel, but it’s not necessary. Leave it be.”

“I’m not that merciful,” Arthur reminds him.

“It’s not mercy. It’s letting go. Moving on.”

Even then, he wants to protest. But Eames looks so tired, so saddened that it scares him a little. Eames has always been like bedrock to him, solid and unshakable. Only now, Arthur can see the fissures within him, and Arthur will do anything to keep those cracks from splitting open.

With that in mind, he tempers his own reactions and reminds himself of what matters. “What do you want to do?”

Eames heaves a sigh. “What if I said I wanted to go back to New York? Tonight.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Just say the word, and we’re gone.”

“And what if I wanted to stay?”

“Our reservation is booked through the week. The restaurant you like serves oxtail pie on Thursdays,” he adds, and is rewarded by the way Eames’s eyes crinkle up in the corners.

“You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not, I know.” Arthur just wants to make this _better_ for Eames, somehow, although rationally he knows he can’t. He can book flights and set them up in cushy hotel suites, but he can’t do anything about the fact that Eames’s only known relatives are assholes. Arthur can’t put a bullet between his father’s eyes. Can’t turn back time to before his mother walked out.

Eames toys with the blankets in his lap, twisting the fabric between his fingers as he thinks. Eventually he looks up, his face as hesitant as Arthur has ever seen. “Can we stay? Much as I’m afraid to get my hopes up, I think… I think I would regret it if I didn’t try to talk to her once more.”

Deep down, it’s not the choice Arthur was hoping for, but he has only one answer.

“Anything you want.”


	4. Start Again

The following day begins with extravagant pastries and tea (coffee for his beloved heathen), and Eames feels optimistic about his decision to stay. Or, perhaps _optimism_ isn’t the accurate word. He thoroughly anticipates the next encounter with his parents to be an utter shit show. But this time, he’ll be ready for it.

Meanwhile, he spends several hours touring Arthur around his childhood haunts, places he’s kept clear of all the times he’s returned to London as an adult. They take a walk through the park, and Eames shows Arthur his favorite tree. For lunch, Eames brings him to the Italian deli a few blocks west, where he used to buy sodas and Easter cakes. The second-hand bookshop he once frequented is now a shoe shop, and he loses Arthur’s attention for a solid forty minutes, but he enjoys watching Arthur swoon over a pair of pewter-gray oxfords.

By the time they return to the hotel, Eames is feeling much like himself again. He knows what he needs to do, and he doesn’t love the idea—far from it—but it’s time to end this.

“I’d like to see them again,” he announces. “Tomorrow, preferably. Wrap this all up so we can go home.”

Arthur searches his eyes, a hint of protest visible in the set of his shoulders. Ultimately, however, he nods. “I have their numbers. I can make the call, if you want.”

He releases a breath, more relieved than he’d like to let on. “Yes, please.”

Arthur takes his phone into the other room, but Eames wants a little more space, so he escapes to the patio and focuses on the view of the city.

He’s always loved London, despite how rarely he’s there. Indeed, his need to avoid London most of his life has always been a source of resentment. Logically, he knew the city was vast and busy enough that he could have outrun his ghosts with ease, but the more visceral part of him couldn’t help but think of it as his father’s town.

As a child, nothing and no one had seemed more powerful to him than his father. It wasn’t until dreamsharing brought him into the shadows of the true movers and shakers of society that he understood just how small a man his father actually is.

Looking back on the places he’s been and all the crazy stunts he’s survived, it’s nearly laughable that he would allow one man to tear him from his roots.

The patio door opens behind him, and a moment later Arthur joins him at the railing. Eames can sense annoyance coming off of him, but his voice is calm. “Veronica invited us to lunch tomorrow. I took the liberty of accepting.”

“Good,” he says, even though it’s not. Not really. But this was his choice, and he will see it through in order to get the one thing he truly needs from his mother—answers.

A whispering in the back of his mind warns about sleeping dragons, but he ignores it. Whatever happens tomorrow, he’ll be okay. He has Arthur, a job he loves, more money than he could ever spend, and the world at his fingertips.

He’ll be okay.

* * *

Lunch is exactly as painful as he envisioned it would be. The four of them sit around a formal table while caterers serve them a “simple” meal designed to impress.

Arthur, looking far more delicious in his slim-fit waistcoat than the chicken roulade, earns his eternal gratitude by carrying most of the conversation with his mother, prompting her for stories about her time in Australia and sharing observations—carefully censored—from his own travels. There’s a contentious quality to their interaction that Eames doesn’t fully understand, but both Arthur and his mother appear equally skilled at meaningless social niceties.

Eames chimes in from time to time, holding onto his composure even he if can’t drum up enthusiasm for the moment. It’s a vast improvement over his father’s brooding at the head of the table. Still, it doesn’t spare him from his mother’s eventual scrutiny.

“You’ve been very quiet this entire time,” she says with a cool smile. “You have nothing to say to your mother?”

Eames puts his cutlery down, giving up the pretense of eating. “I might have a _few_ things to say.” He can feel Arthur and his father both watching him carefully, albeit in different ways. His mother, however, smiles at him from across the table.

“I’m so glad we’re getting this chance to speak. You’ve grown into such a handsome man. I want to know everything—”

“Where did you go?” he cuts in, waiting impassively as she blinks and stalls with her wineglass.

“Pardon?”

“It’s not a complicated question. Where did you go? I lived in this house for fifteen years, and not once, in any of that time, did I see you or hear from you. So. Where were you?”

She looks to the side, gaze sliding to his father, then away, and then back again. _Tell me it was his fault_ , Eames silently pleads. _Tell me you tried, that he kept you away. That he lied. Forced you. Give me something._

But he knows, from the distance in her eyes and the familiar lift of her chin, that nothing she’s about to say is what he needs to hear.

“I went to Scotland for a time,” she hedges with detectable caution. “I have family there, you know. We should organize a visit, come to think of it.”

He sees the detour laid out and declines it. Just like working a mark, he steers the discussion back onto the course of his choosing. “But you weren’t in Scotland the last twenty-two years.” Beside him, Arthur scoots his chair away from the table, ready to move.

His mother stills, sensing the corner he’s backing her into. He’s vaguely gratified to know that, if nothing else, idiocy does not run in his genes. “No,” she says softly, carefully. “No, I did some traveling, actually. Bermuda, Grenada, the like.” She brightens. “Oh, Bryce dear, Brazil is wonderful! I’d love to show you—”

“I’ve been, thank you. Several times. Arthur doesn’t like the humidity.”

“Ruins my shoes,” Arthur deadpans without missing a beat.

She purses her lips. “I’m sure—”

“If I’m to understand,” Eames interrupts again, “you were jet-setting your way across the Atlantic. And that’s why you were too busy to contact your only child.” He tilts his head in thought. “ _Am_ I your only child?”

His father sets his glass down with a thud.

She leans away from the table, spine stiffening. “I don’t think I like what you’re implying.”

“In that case, the rest of this conversation shan’t be pleasant.”

“I’m here, now. That should be what matters.”

The muscle under his eye twitches. “You have no idea what matters to me.”

His mother takes an audible breath and another long drink of wine. “Perhaps we should return to happier topics.”

Eames slouches back in his chair, wielding his insolence like a shiv. “Perhaps you should tell me why you wanted to see me.”

Again, her eyes flash to the head of the table. For what, Eames can’t tell, as his father remains unhelpfully silent. When she turns back his way, she’s lost some of her fortitude but carries on, nonetheless. “You’re our son. Isn’t that reason enough?”

“Hasn’t been thus far.”

“Well,” she sniffs, blinking fast. “We can discuss it later.” She flicks a meaningful glance at Arthur.

“Now works for me. How about you, darling?” he asks, turning to his right.

Arthur meets his gaze, outwardly serene. “Now is great.”

His mother sends Arthur a hard smile, cast with resentment and indignation. “This is a family matter,” she demurs, which is possibly the worst thing she could have said. That word, used so blithely like she has any right to it, cracks through his mind like a grenade. He was willing to spar before, even somewhat enjoyed testing her with his snark and disdain. Only now, she’s pushed the line.

“Family.” He shakes his head. “My family is sitting right next to me. And you don’t even understand what that means. So let’s get on with this, hm?”

“For godsake, Rona,” his father snipes unexpectedly, causing Eames to jump. “Just tell him. I’ve no interest in dawdling here all night.”

His mother finally puts her wine glass aside, projecting confidence that isn’t the least bit believable. “Fine, then. I’ve been… Well, to tell the truth, this has been rather a difficult year for me. I’ve been… dealing with a, with a _situation_. But the time has come for me to face my fears and accept my fate.” She puffs up her chest and pauses dramatically.

Eames just stares until she wilts.

“Right. You should know…” Her voice thickens and trembles, her true accent breaking free. “You should know that…”

His father shifts impatiently and opens his mouth, but she cuts him off before he can speak. “I’m sick,” she announces. “I’m dying, Bryce.”

He can feel Arthur watching him, but he only has eyes for his mother, sitting across from him with wet eyes and a questioning cant to her head. He says nothing.

His mother flounders under his lack of response but eventually rallies on. “I merely wanted to spend some time with my son before I go. Get to know you. Perhaps… answer any questions you have.”

The silence drags on.

Surprisingly, it’s his father who breaks first. “Well, say something!”

Eames lets his thoughts spin as they will, thrown into a dozen directions. He becomes aware of running his thumb back and forth on the tablecloth. There’s a snagged thread, a tiny knot pulling all the other threads out of order and marring the otherwise smooth cotton surface. “You know,” he muses, “when Arthur first learned you were searching for me, I thought maybe it was the old man that was dying. Rejoiced at the idea, really. But this…” He raises his head and pins her with a look. “This is better.”

She flinches, tears spilling down her cheeks at the abrupt motion. “How can you _say that?_ I’m your mother.”

He laughs, and it sounds hard and nasty even to his ears. “The hell you are. You tossed me aside like an old shoe when I was practically a baby and never looked twice. Only now you want me to pat you on the head and play the loving son just so you can die with a clear conscience? Not happening. As far as I’m concerned, you may as well have died years ago.”

She stares at him in shock. Even his father gapes with disbelief. Arthur, though—Arthur watches him carefully, poised to act however Eames needs him to. And, Christ, does he love this man.

His mo— _Veronica_ stammers out of her stupor. “How can you… I don’t… You can’t mean that. Surely you… The doctor says I only have a few months, _at most_. I may be _dead_ within the year.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

“Junior!” His father thunders to his feet, looming, snarling, fists pressed to the tabletop.

But Eames just shoots him a look. “ _Don’t_.”

He’s not a scared boy, not any longer. He’s made himself into something far more dangerous than his father’s wrath could ever be, and he lets the darkest edge of it show as he stares his father down.

Slowly, ever so slowly, his father lowers himself back into his chair, and Eames tunes into the sounds of Veronica’s weeping.

“—how you can hate me so much?”

“Because of _him_ ,” he spits, sneering in her direction a brief second before returning his eyes to the man who nearly destroyed him a hundred times over before he could even truly live. “You left me with him.”

“I don’t—”

“I was a helpless child, and you abandoned me to his nonexistent mercies.”

“What are you—”

“Where were you when he smacked me for wetting the bed. When he told me I was the worthless son of a whore, and that he should have dropped me in the river while I was a baby. Or locked me in my room for days. Living off of nothing but water from the bathroom sink until I learned to hide food behind the bookcase.”

Arthur makes a noise, but Eames can’t turn away from the cold eyes looking back at him without a hint of remorse, and the words continue to spill out of him. “Where were you when I was sick with fever, and he refused to take me to the hospital because it wasn’t worth his time. Or when I cut my hand, cleaning up the broken dishes he threw at me. And all of that before I was twelve years old,” he tries to laugh again, but it comes out more like a sob, as he finally meets Veronica’s stunned gaze.

All color has left her face, tear tracks cutting through her makeup like fault lines.

Somewhere along the way, Arthur’s hand has found its way into his own, and Eames squeezes tight with trembling fingers as he pushes on. “Things got more interesting as I got older, and he didn’t feel the need to hold back. Not his words _or_ his fists. I was barely fifteen when he tossed me out of this very house, with fuck all to my name but a black eye, two fractured ribs, and a concussion. And, yes,” he growls, “I very much blame you for letting it all happen. So, tell me, _mother_. Why shouldn’t I hate you?”

She says nothing.

He huffs, his anger and righteousness bleeding out into fatigue. “That’s what I thought.”

The silence beats on for another moment, and then Arthur gets up and nudges him to his feet. “Time to go,” he says gently.

Eames nods and allows himself to be led away, as stillness reigns at the table behind them. He doesn’t look back.

* * *

When Arthur says _go_ , he really means it. He takes them to the hotel, packs up their belongings, and has them back in a cab in under an hour.

Eames watches everything happen through a cloud, sees the passing streets without recognition. His head is too full of things he’s trying desperately not to think about—hell, he doesn’t want to think at all, period.

Bad enough that he’s dredged up memories better left in the grave of his youth. And for what? To prove to some woman, who might as well be a stranger, that she fucked up? To shove her nose in the fact that her mistakes caused him pain?

Pointless. It was all pointless.

The boyhood dream of a loving mother who would tuck him into bed and hold him when he cried.

Pointless.

Every star he wished on, praying with desperate faith for her to return and save him from his father.

Pointless.

The childish fantasies he wove, that she would take him far away and they would live happily in a small house with bright yellow walls. He’d have a tire swing, a best friend named Billy, and a fucking dog, even.

What a joke.

Such a sad, naïve fool he’d been, believing it made any difference that she didn’t know.

And now here he’s left, a grown man pushing forty, feeling like he’s just become an orphan. Which is utterly laughable because he thought he had already worked through that particular notion decades ago.

After his father kicked him out, he was nothing. A half-formed human consciousness stunted by the physical and emotional restraints that had always bound him. He was weak back then, Eames can admit, and susceptible to those who would use him. And those who would hurt him.

But he fought through all of that and remade himself into someone who was daring and indomitable. He’s stronger today than that shut-up little boy could ever have imagined.

How can it be that it’s still not enough?

Eames dashes at the tears clinging to his lashes. He hates this. He hates that he cares so much, even now. Hates that the person he’s worked so hard to become has turned out to be little more than a breakable veneer. All it took was dining with the bogeyman, and he’s back where he started.

The cab brakes with a jerk, and Eames blinks out through the window in confusion. They’re not at Heathrow, but rather a small airport next to the river.

“I thought a private plane would be nicer, right now.”

He turns at looks at Arthur for a slow measure before he understands. “Yes. That will be much appreciated, thank you.” He tries for a smile, which he’s pretty sure fails. “My hero.”

Arthur basks in his words but attempts to cover it by paying the cabbie. Darling Arthur, always wanting to please but shy about showing it. Eames can plainly see how much Arthur longs to take care of him. So, even though he feels more clear-minded with the increasing geography between him and his parents, he lets Arthur usher him through the process of checking in and sorting their luggage.

There’s still some time before the plane is ready, so they’re shown to a small but thankfully empty lounge for the meantime. Preoccupied, Arthur spends several minutes on his phone, texting and flipping between apps faster than Eames cares to track. Instead, he waits until he’s finally put the phone down before asking. “What do you love about me?”

Unfazed by the abrupt question, Arthur regards him with serious eyes and a soft smile hinting around his mouth. “Short answer—everything.”

“Arthur.”

Chuckling, Arthur takes his hand and laces their fingers together. His hand is warm. Strong. “That, right there, for one thing. I love that you keep me honest. Keep me real. I love how real _you_ are.”

Ridiculous. Doesn’t Arthur realize how many times he’s remade himself, how many guises he’s worn? He makes a face, but Arthur continues before he can properly voice his arguments.

“No, I mean that. I’ve never met anyone who feels as alive and solid as you do. While other people are just scratching the surface of life, you’re _in it_. You see more, you feel more. You… you instinctively understand things that I barely even register until you’ve pointed them out.” Now Arthur’s smile spreads unfettered. “You shine, Eames, like you’re the only one who’s actually living, and the rest of us are just projections going through the motions.”

“I’m not—” Eames breaks off, too abashed by the praise despite practically begging for it. Arthur takes the opportunity to expand on his acclaim.

“I love your complicated mind,” he says. “You never stop amazing me. I love your strength. I love how generous and kind you are. How patient you can be, even with people who don’t deserve it. I love your gentle eyes, your stupid cowlicks, and your shitty tattoos.”

“Hey, now.”

“Mostly shitty tattoos,” Arthur amends with a laugh. “I love the way you make me feel about myself. Make me laugh and… and happy, with my life and who _I_ am. I love the sense of safety and permanence you give me. I love how you push me to be more than I think I can be, and yet you accept me exactly as I am.”

Eames’s heart aches, thinking about all the people who must have made Arthur feel unwanted in one way or another. He leans in, and Arthur meets him halfway with a ready kiss on his lips.

“I love how affectionate you are with me,” Arthur whispers against his mouth. “I love that I can reach out any time and touch you. That you welcome it. And I love that touching you never stops feeling like an adventure. That you make me feel things I didn’t even know my body was capable of.”

“That won’t last,” Eames feels compelled to say. “We’ll grow old and limp, eventually. I’ll get pudgy around the middle. You’ll be too arthritic for anything but missionary.”

Arthur laughs, leaning back so he can wield the full power of those devastating, dark eyes. “Just a different adventure, then. And you’re already a little pudgy around the middle.”

“Your fault. You’re the one that keeps making pasta.”

Before Arthur can retort, they’re called to board. By the time they get settled in their seats with the plane taking flight beneath them, all the upheaval of the last few days catches up with Eames. He’s exhausted and must look it, too, because Arthur gives him one of his least favorite frowns.

“Try to get some sleep, maybe?”

“Seems like you’re always putting me down for a nap, these days.”

“Practice for when we’re old and arthritic. Go on, sleep.”

Which sounds glorious, truthfully. Eames tilts his seat back and is out within seconds.

* * *

He wakes up in Paris—groggy and emotionally hungover. So, again, he follows Arthur’s lead and focuses simply on keeping up through the crowd of travelers.

He stops short, however, once he realizes they’re walking out of the airport instead of changing gates. “Arthur, hold on. Surely our layover isn’t long enough to bother leaving, yeah?”

But Arthur isn’t even listening, too distracted by his texting to so much as look up. Eames’s confusion spoils into irritation. Arthur has been poking at that damn phone ever since they landed. And while that’s hardly unusual, today of all days Eames is not in the mood to be ignored. “Arthur, what are we doing? When is the New York flight?”

“We’re not going to New York. We’re taking a train to Italy.”

Everything inside of Eames hunches up at the thought of more travel. He drops his bag, ready to have it out right there. Damned if he’ll take another step unless it’s back into that airport. “Arthur. I would really like to just go back to New York and lie low for while. Please tell me you understand.”

Arthur has the gall to smile, looking entirely too pleased with himself whilst Eames is this annoyed. “This is better.”

He counts slowly to ten—maybe he only gets as far as three and half—but feels his temper unravel, nonetheless. “Damnit, Arthur.”

But his burgeoning tirade is disrupted by a barking laugh, followed by a familiar drawl. “Ah, the dulcet sounds of young love.”

Shocked, Eames whirls around and stares. “Mason?”

He hangs, immobile and confused, from the fierce bear hug that Arthur’s father wraps him in. Over Mason’s shoulder, he sees Jackie waiting on the pavement next to an idling cab. She grins and waves, bouncing with excitement.

When Mason finally releases him, he wheels on Arthur, speechless.

Arthur’s smile turns smug. “How does a family vacation sound?”

Eames takes a shuddering breath. Exhales. “Better,” he croaks, blinking fast. “Much better.” He drags Arthur close for a kiss before spinning back around to give Mason another hug. “Wonderful to see you, Mason.”

Mason grins, clapping him on the back. “You, too. I know we’ve been nagging you boys about coming to visit, but Arthur said there're some markets in Naples you’d love to show me.”

“He’s right.”

“He always is, the little shit.”

Arthur looks back and forth between them. “Hey!”

“Boys,” Jackie calls, “hurry up. You’re keeping this nice driver waiting.”

“Be a dear and bring my bag.” Eames doesn’t wait for Arthur’s response before bounding off with his arms held wide. “Jackie! My angel. How are you? Have you missed me?”

* * *

Arthur stands beside his dad, the two of them watching as Eames dips his mom over his arm like an old Hollywood movie and plants a loud kiss on her cheek.

“Thanks again for this. And for changing plans so quickly.”

His dad slings an arm around his shoulders. “Oh, hush. You know we’re thrilled to be here. And, much as I was looking forward to spitting that man in the eye, this was a better idea. Plus, your mother’s always wanted to do a train thing through Europe.”

“Yeah.”

Over by the taxi, Eames and his mom have lured the driver into their conversation, helpless against the combined force of their charm. Soon there are big smiles going around their small circle, and anyone watching would think the three of them were longtime friends.

It’s not an instant fix. Arthur can still see the tension and sorrow lingering below the surface. Eames’s laugh is quieter than normal, his body language a little less elegant than usual. But his eyes are bright and clear for the first time in days. That’s worth something.

“He’ll be okay.” His dad tugs him into a sideways hug. “We’ll take care of him.”

“Yeah. Yeah, we will.”

**Author's Note:**

> Story and chapter titles from the song "What I’ve Done" by Linkin Park (covered by Marie Digby)


End file.
